Riding the Storm
by LitFan2025
Summary: When Dean's moment of peace is ruined by a man standing out in the middle of the road, all he wants to do is get rid of him. Then the brothers discover that he was missing for five days in the woods. And when Sam goes missing, the situation becomes a whole lot more personal for Dean. Spoilers for up to mid-season 7. Warnings for use of bad language, violence and gore.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first fanfiction, so any criticism is welcome! This fic and it's title is inspired by the song 'Riders On The Storm' by the Doors.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own rights to Supernatural.**

 **Chapter One**

Rain battered the windscreen of the Dodge as Dean drove along what felt like a never-ending road. Combined with the oppressive darkness outside, he could hardly see anything in front of him, the headlamps of the car making little difference against the cruel weather. Sam was dozing in the passenger seat next to him, his head lolling backwards over the leather seat, his chest rising and falling slowly. His eyelids fluttered ever so slightly, a sure-fire sign that he was dreaming. _At least it isn't a nightmare_ , Dean thought, _otherwise he would be kicking his unnaturally long legs against the footwell of the car._ It was a comforting sight to see his brother sleeping so peacefully for a change. The poor kid deserved a break; Dean could only guess at what sort of havoc and torment Lucifer was wreaking in his brother's mind.

The radio was quietly playing Lynyrd Skynyrd, accompanied by the rumbling of the Dodge's engine, and Dean finally allowed himself to feel the sense of peace creeping upon him. He could almost ignore the threat of the leviathans, the complex mental case of Sam, Cas's betrayal and end. He could almost forget the heavy sense of loss and grief over Bobby. Things seemed so set against him, and yet right in this moment, with Sammy sleeping so soundly next to him, driving towards what the next morning would bring him, he felt the most in control and relaxed he had for a while. Maybe this next hunt would go smoothly. Maybe he would find some solid evidence on Dick Roman. Maybe Sam would be better rested at the least.

However, all these hopes were shattered as a figure came into view in the headlights.

Nearly crashing into the shadow, Dean slammed on the brakes, the tyres screaming in protest. He stopped just short of sending the figure flying. Sam jerked awake, his bloodshot eyes quickly scanning his surroundings. His flannel-covered shoulders slouched as he relaxed, realising he was safe. _Just when I was finally getting some rest_ , he thought.

"What the hell, dude!" Both said in unison, Sam staring accusatorily at his brother. Dean didn't reply, his eyes wide as he stared ahead, his hands gripped tight around the steering wheel. He was holding his breath. Sam followed his line of sight to a hunched figure stood in front of the headlights. The person seemed to be completely unaware that a car had just nearly kissed their ass. Before Sam had a chance to react, Dean seemed to wake from his state of shock, near enough kicking the car door open, anger etched on his face.

"Are you trying to kill yourself!" Sam heard Dean shout, and sensing the situation was about to escalate, he followed suit, exiting the warmth of the car. Walking round to the front of the Dodge, Sam was able to see the full profile of the figure. A man, who appeared to be in his early twenties stood before them, shoulders drooping forward, wet dirty blonde hair plastered to his face. Blood and mud covered his face, bare arms and jacket. His soaked clothes clung to his body as he stood blankly looking ahead, not seeming to notice the two men staring at him. The guy looked like he had been hit by a car already, and Sam couldn't help but feel sympathy towards him.

"Looks like the lights are on, but no one's home," Dean said dryly, breaking the silence.

Sam glared at his brother and sighed. "Um, hey?" Sam asked, bending slightly and lowering his head so he could see the man's face properly. "Are you OK?" There seemed to be no sign of thought, or life even, in the man's eyes. He did not even acknowledge Sam's question, or of either brothers' presence.

"Maybe we should get him in the car and warm him up?" Sam suggested, looking back at his brother.

"Why would we do that? We don't know him from Jack," Dean retorted, the light casting angular shadows across his face.

"We can't just leave him out here Dean. He might cause another accident, or get run over."

"He doesn't seem to be bothered about that," Dean said, waving his hand in front of the man's face. "See, there's nothing there."

"That's beside the point," Sam rolled his eyes. Empathy didn't always come naturally to Dean, unless it concerned Sam or his safety.

"No, the point is, I don't want some nutcase in the car with us. God knows what he could do."

"In case you hadn't noticed, you've already got a nutcase in the car with you," Sam looked over at his brother pointedly, the headlights reflecting in his hazel eyes.

"Not cool, Sammy. Not cool," Dean shot back at his brother. But he knew Sam was right; he couldn't leave this strange man on the side of the road to be a danger to himself and others. And even if he wanted to, he knew Sam would not let it rest until he got his way. Sighing, Dean stepped round to face the man, and crouching to look at him, he placed his hands on the guy's shoulders.

"Hey man, we're gonna get you off the road and somewhere safe. OK?"

The man eyes shifted to focus on Dean's, and Dean thought for a moment he would respond. However, a few seconds later, the man eyes flitted back, as he continued on with his staring contest with the woods behind Dean.

"Definitely crazy," Dean muttered, as he guided the slight man to the car. "A bit of help would be nice Sam."

...

Dean headed towards the closest town in Minnesota, which happened to be Princeton. He decided that he would hand Mr. Crackpot in the back over to the authorities, and be on his way. He had bigger fish to fry than babysitting some loon. It had been a mammoth task to get him in the damn car. It was like his limbs had stopped working, as he did not cooperate with the brothers, his arms stiff by his sides, his feet firmly planted to the asphalt. By the time they had shoved him into the backseat and got back into their seats, Sam and Dean were drenched by the relentless rainfall, Sam's mop of brown hair poking at his eyes. And to add insult to injury, the Dodge's windows had started to steam up as a result of the extra body in the car. Dean had turned the heat up to full, and felt as if he was being cooked alive.

"Hey, no Titanic moments Sammy. I don't want a handprint on the window," Dean smirked over at his brother. He chuckled furthermore at the bitchface he received in return. They continued in silence for a while, until the backseat mental case began mumbling to himself, his eyes cast down towards his feet.

"Oh great, he's a talker," Dean groaned.

"Shh, I'm trying to listen to what he's saying," Sam said quietly, not daring to turn round and face the man, for fear it would startle him and he would stop. He could only make sense of a few words.

"H-h-h-help… w-w-w-woods… l-l-l-lost…"

"I think he's trying to tell us something Dean," Sam whispered.

Dean rolled his eyes. "OK, Mr. Detective, while you're trying to figure that out, I'll be pretending to care. The sooner we get to this town and get rid of him, the happier I'll be."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The police department shined ahead like a beacon, the finish line of an incredibly long marathon. Dean sighed; driving for half an hour with a nutcase murmuring away in his ear had been slowly grating at the little patience he already possessed, even in that short space of time. It took all of his effort to not force the accelerator pedal through the floor of the car in his attempt to get to the station as quick as possible. This was not how he intended to spend the night, even though he hadn't planned on finding women and beer either. _Why do we always get dragged into crap we don't want,_ Dean wondered to himself, massaging his thumb over the leather steering wheel. Pulling into a parking space, Dean glanced over at his brother again for what felt like the hundredth time that night. Sam was rubbing his neck after leaning awkwardly in his seat to listen to their crazy hitchhiker. His scrunched up mellow hazel eyes were cradled by the purple bruises of sleep deprivation. In short, his brother was looking worse for wear.

"You pieced all the clues together yet Sherlock?" Dean asked, cutting the engine.

"I'm guessing that he's in a state of shock, he's still not making much sense. Just muttering about woods and being lost," Sam shrugged. "How are we going to get him out of the car?"

"With great difficulty, by the looks of it," Dean sighed again, his eyes flicking to the mirror to watch their new passenger. The man's eyes were still trained on his feet, as if he was waiting for them to start tap-dancing, or to disappear altogether. He sat with his arms draped beside him on the seat, palms facing upwards. He was shaking, and Dean wasn't sure if that was a result of his drenched clothing, or if something had freaked him out in the woods. But Dean found himself not caring much anyway; his moment of peace had been ruined by this bum, and he had reverted back to the semi-pissed, semi-exhausted mood he often found himself in lately.

Sam broke Dean's reverie of staring into the rear-view mirror by swinging the passenger door open, cold air rushing into the car. Pulling himself out from the Dodge, he was expecting to have to manhandle their guest out of the vehicle, but was surprised to find that he had allowed Sam to guide him out by his arm. He stepped slowly from the car onto the gravelly surface of the parking lot, chips of asphalt popping under his shoes. For a moment, the man surveyed his surroundings, his blue, panic-ridden eyes scanning the area. He then looked back down at his feet again, his body twitching slightly. The whistling of the wind obscured the sound of his mutterings, but Dean could still see his lips working away at the words in the orange glare of the streetlamp.

"We should get him out of the cold," Sam said, as the wind played with the bangs on his forehead. Dean nodded in agreement, looking forward to the moment when they could get rid of the poor bastard.

…

Leading him to the steps, however, took much longer than it had to get the guy out of the car. He would not cooperate with Sam when he tried to usher him forwards, his feet seemingly glued to the ground beneath him. In his frustration, Dean was tempted to drag him along after them, or to leave him outside whilst they reported him. Finally, with great effort, they managed to herd him to the glass entrance, helping him through into the brightly lit foyer. A woman behind the desk glanced up as the cold air from outside embraced her. When her eyes fell upon the three men, two of which were supporting who she assumed to be a drunk, she stood up. However, as they got closer, recognition dawned upon her. Looking down at the stack of 'missing' posters that were piled on her desk, she felt a wave of relief. _At least one has returned_ , she thought, as before her stood Jamie Stevens, a twenty-four year old man who had been missing for five days.

"Derek!" she called, stepping out from behind the teak desk, approaching the men. "Where'd you find him?" she looked up at the two men holding Jamie up. They were as soaked as him, their coats dripping puddles onto the tiled floor.

"About thirty miles back, on a stretch of highway. We think he came out from the woods," Sam replied, looking down at the squat woman. Her brown hair was pulled up tight in a bun on top of her head. Sam guessed that she was in her mid-50s, on account of the grey strands that were threaded through her hair, as well as the laughter-lines that curved out from her eyes and around the sides of her lips. Although her expression was anxious as she looked at the missing-now-found man, her watery eyes spoke of a kindness that was not commonly found in a police department.

"Yeah, he won't bloody shut up about the damn woods," Dean muttered. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Sam had shot him a sharp look.

"Well, all I can do is thank you boys. This poor guy has been missing for five days."

"That's no problem, ma'am," Dean said without much enthusiasm, becoming more agitated by the situation he had found himself in. At this moment, the Sheriff decided to enter the scene. As he approached the gathering of people, Dean noted that he sported a particularly rotund beer-belly, a thick moustache and dark, unkempt hair. He wondered if all the personnel at this police department lived on a diet of chocolate-coated doughnuts and coffee.

"Yes, Mary-Ann," he asked, before turning his gaze to the three men in front him. The Sheriff's eyes widened when he recognised the missing boy. How upset his parents had been when they reported him as missing, the Sheriff recalled, the boy's mother barely managing to compose her emotions. "Where'd you find him?"

 _Is there an echo in here,_ Dean thought. Before he had chance to answer though, Mary-Ann interrupted.

"They found him about thirty miles away in those damned woods, Derek. I told you there was something going on in there," Mary-Ann said earnestly, her eyes staring up at the Sheriff. Without glancing at his brother, Dean knew that Sam's attention had been caught - hook, line and sinker. If he had been a dog, his ears would have pricked up. Dean, however, didn't like where the situation was headed.

"All right, Mary-Ann, I'll look into it. For now let's just sort this man out and get him a cup of Joe. I think he needs it." Mary-Ann's eyes suddenly sparkled; nodding quickly so that the bun on top of her head bounced, she turned around and scuttled off down the hallway. The sound of her heels could be heard clicking against the hard floor.

"Now, if you boys follow me, we'll get this young man taken care of. I will need to take a statement from both of you," the Sheriff paused. "You both look familiar, do I know you?"

Dean inwardly cursed. The brothers looked at each other; Dean could read his brother's expression like a book. _We need to get out of here,_ Sam's eyes were saying. Dean could not agree more. Ever since a couple of leviathans had gone out on a public hunting spree wearing their faces, Dean knew they had to be careful walking into places such as police departments. He knew it had been a reckless move bringing the nutcase to the station, where they could be easily recognised, but he had just wanted to be rid of the burden. At best, they could be arrested. At worst – well, Dean didn't dare to think about it.

"I don't think you do, sir. We just have those faces. You know, familiar ones," Dean tried to laugh, forcing a smile onto his face. He looked over at Sam, who was nodding and murmuring an agreement through gritted teeth.

The Sheriff shook his head and smiled. "Well, anyway boys, if you'll come with me and we'll get this business wrapped up." Following the Sherriff, with the nutcase in tow, Dean had a sinking feeling that their night was about become much longer and much more complicated than he had initially dreaded.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you to FoodLibrary and the guest for reviewing, and thank you to those that have followed and favourited. Feel free to leave a comment :)**

 **Chapter Three**

"Well, why didn't you guys say something before?" The Sheriff questioned, his dark eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he inspected their fake badges.

"Didn't seem like the time. You already had enough to deal with with the missing guy," Sam shrugged.

Dean shifted in what was possibly one of the world's most uncomfortable chairs, swiping a hand across his face. They were definitely involved in these missing cases now; one look from Sam had told him that they were not letting this situation go. Dean had to admit that it seemed like their kind of bag. But all Dean had wanted was a quiet night. _Was that too much to ask,_ he wondered. The Sheriff had told them that he would only be five minutes whilst he sorted out a few things for Jamie Stevens. They had had to wait twenty minutes for him to return, by which time, the brothers had formulated their cover.

"So, you boys are FBI?" Dean nodded as the Sheriff handed their badges back. _He didn't take much convincing; what a surprise,_ Dean thought. "Well, as much as I don't like people interfering and all with local business, I could really use your help with this case." Dean had no doubt about that; he was pretty sure that Princetown's police department was the most inefficient operation going in town.

"We've had nine reported disappearances over the past three months that can be traced back to those woods. We initially assumed that the missing persons were a result of an animal attack," the Sheriff explained. Dean did doubt this however; usually an animal attack was actually some nasty that had an unhealthy appetite for human flesh. "It is difficult to determine that though when no bodies have been found," the Sheriff continued. "We've had only one person walk, or rather, I should say _crawl_ , out of those woods alive."

"Crawl?" Sam asked, his eyebrows arching up to the ceiling as he looked intently into the Sheriff's face.

"Yeah, a Mr. Michael Fleetly. He was found on the side of the road like Mr. Stevens back here. Had a similar reaction as well, was unresponsive for the first five hours after we found him and took him to the emergency room."

"What happened after five hours?" Dean asked,

The Sheriff hesitated, his face scrunching up as he appeared to struggle to form a response. "Well, he started raving, nearly attacked one of the nurses looking after him. He had no idea where he was or how he got there. Started screaming about some monster in the woods," the Sheriff paused, looking up at Sam. "He was in shock, of course."

"Would we be able to get in contact with him?" Sam asked.

"I'll sort his details out for you, as well as the rest of the case files," the Sheriff stood up. Before he left the room, he paused in the doorway and looked over at the brothers. "Be warned though, he's not the friendliest guy around."

…

"I just want baby back already," Dean complained, punching the Dodge's heat controls. He felt like he was suffocating in the sauna of a car. Sam didn't reply, but instead continued to stare out of the window, the bright light emitted from the streetlamps causing his tired reflection to wink in and out of view in the glass. "Come on Sam, talk to me. As much of a delight as I am, talking to myself can become quite tiresome."

"Sorry, I'm just tired," Sam said, not looking away from the glass. Dean could tell from the expression on his brother's face that something was troubling him, and he had an idea of what it was about.

"Listen Sammy, whatever's on your mind, you can tell me. Hell, both you and I know you will tell me eventually. Why don't cut out the middle man and say it now?"

Sam still said nothing for a while, only letting out a sigh. Finally he spoke.

"What if that's gonna be me?" he asked, and while Dean was not looking at his brother, he could tell that Sam's eyes were welling up, his face crumpling slightly in fear of the unknown.

"What, like Fruit Loops back there?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yes Dean, what if that's what I'm going to become?" Sam cast his mind back to Jamie. "A stuttering mess, no idea of who or where I am? Not knowing what's real and what's not?"

"Sam, you won't be like that. I'll be there to remind you – "

"What if that's not enough?"

 _Damn,_ thought Dean, _was 'what if' Sam's favourite question at the moment?_ Trust Sam to ask the questions that kept Dean silent, not knowing how to respond. A few moments passed in silence whilst Dean deliberated over his arguments. "Sam, I don't know what's going to happen. But whatever the outcome, we will fight this together, like we always do. You will not turn into that, you won't forget, because I will be there to help you remember. I'm real, you're real. That's all that matters."

Dean looked over at his brother; Sam didn't look convinced, but seemed to have given up the fight for now. Dean remembered the days in which his brother would trust his words, take comfort in whatever Dean told him. Those days had gone. Sam looked down at his feet, and Dean was struck by the similar nature in which Sam's actions reflected that of Jamie's earlier on in the night. For all he knew, Dean assumed that Sam could only trust himself and what he felt physically, but he wasn't entirely sure. He hadn't pried too much into what went on in Sam's mind, and Sam didn't reveal much on his front either.

"So, what's our plan of action now then?" Dean asked, trying to change the subject. Sam didn't respond for a few seconds, and Dean thought his attempt had failed, but then Sam sighed again, picking up the case files resting on the seat between them.

"I'm gonna do a bit more research into these disappearances tonight, see what I can find. Tomorrow morning, we go out and visit Mr. Fleetly, and then work from there," he replied, flipping through the pages of evidence.

"You do need to sleep tonight," Dean said, pulling into a motel parking lot.

"Dean, don't you think I would if I could?" Sam asked, looking over at his brother. Dean's face looked washed out in the glare of the flashing sign overheard that read: _'Moonlight Motel. Unbeatable Prices. Vacancies All Around.'_ Both brothers were exhausted, as usual, from a variety of assaulting factors. Sam believed he would feel better if he could just get some sleep, but Lucifer's constant commentary on events, or his humming of 'She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain When She comes', didn't allow for much rest.

Checking into a room for the night, Dean looked forward to kicking off his boots and sinking into the mattress that waited for him behind the door.

…

"I'm just curious, but seriously, what attracts you to such bums?" Lucifer asked from where he sat on a wooden chair across from Sam, his long legs perched upon the table. Sam tried to ignore him, focusing instead on the laptop screen in front of him. He had been looking into information based on the woods in the area local to Princetown, scanning for anything mysterious in the past fifty years or so. So far, he had found nothing.

"Oh come on Sam, you know the more you ignore me, the more annoying I become. I'm like an itch – a loveable itch at that."

In his fatigued state, Sam was becoming more frustrated by the lack of results and Lucifer's incessant complaining, and would have thrown the laptop across the motel room if he had energy to do so. He pressed his fingers into the still-aching scar on his palm, hoping that Lucifer would let up and leave him alone. But that did not work anymore. Ever since he acknowledged Lucifer's presence, Sam couldn't seem to rid himself of his torment. He looked over at Dean, who lay sleeping in the furthest bed away from him, the sounds of his snoring floating over to meet his ears. He wondered how his brother could not see or even _hear_ his constant companion.

"All you gotta do is… scratch," Lucifer laughed, shifting his legs down off the table, replacing them with his elbows and resting his head upon his hands. The words upon the computer screen had started to merge into nonsense before Sam's eyes. He was just about to give up the search, and sit with his thoughts for the rest of the night when a headline jumped out at him: _'Six teenagers that disappeared in local woods presumed dead – no remains found'._ Interest piqued, Sam continued to read on into the early hours of the morning, knowing that any attempt at sleep would be futile.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you to Jen for the lovely review, and thank you also to Arw165, Cdw43, Eruthianwen Luin, Fatal Framer and Hacked It Out and Fell for following! I hope you enjoy this chapter! Any comments or criticism are welcomed and much appreciated!**

 **Chapter Four**

"You look awful."

"Thanks," Sam yawned, rubbing his sore eyes. He felt so tired his limbs didn't seem to want to cooperate with him, and he nearly punched himself in the eye. A _pint_ of coffee was needed if he was going to function for the rest of the day.

Sam looked round at their room and decided that it looked like an explosion had gone off. Case notes were strewn all around the table that Sam was sat at, some of the papers that had fallen to the floor collecting in tiny piles. The dull brown covers of Dean's bed had been thrown back, his shirt and suit adding to the mess of sheets from when he had tossed them haphazardly from his duffel bag. Only Sam's bed sat in pristine condition, having not been touched since it had been changed. The sheets were still pulled down so tight at the sides that it looked as if a knife was needed to be able to peel back the covers. Sam yearned to jump into the bed, to lie down for a few hours and regain a small portion of the energy he had lost through his all-nighter. But he knew that was impossible with the cacophony that assaulted his ears on behalf of Lucifer.

"No seriously. Did you get any sleep at all last night?" Dean mumbled, in between brushing his teeth. A line of dribble was tracing its way down his chin, his bed hair sticking out in crazy directions.

"A couple of hours," Sam lied, opening his laptop and pushing the power button. He could hear the sound of the computer's fan lazily whirring to life. "Besides, you don't look brilliant either."

"Whatever could you mean?" Dean's speech was nearly incomprehensible between the toothbrush and his teeth, more toothpaste snaking down from the corner of his mouth. He waved a hand, gesturing at his body, a feigned expression of hurt plastered on his face. "I look a million dollars."

Dean retreated back into the bathroom. Through the open doorway, Sam could hear Dean rinsing out his mouth, humming a Metallica tune whilst he sorted out his appearance.

"Anyway, since when did you become married to that damn machine?" Dean called out, his deep voice much clearer without the toothbrush. Sam trained one of his trademark bitchfaces at the wall which his brother stood behind. "Don't give me that look Samantha, I know you too well."

"What else am I supposed to do with my time if I can't sleep, Dean?" Sam argued.

"Well, you could attempt to sleep, at the very least get some rest."

"I just figured that I may as well make some progress, do something useful."

Dean's sigh was audible all the way from the bathroom, and without being able to see, Sam knew that his brother was wiping a hand across his face in frustration and exhaustion combined.

"Did you find anything last night?" Dean asked, shuffling over to his bed and beginning to undress and change into a pair of black trousers and white shirt. He threw his discarded pyjamas onto his bed, adding to the clutter.

"I did actually." All of his effort and searching late into the night and early morning had, in return, offered Sam a handful of news articles that detailed numerous reports of people going missing in the local woods around Princeton over the past fifty or so years. Pulling up an article dated to Monday 22nd June 1959 that detailed six disappearances, Sam twisted the laptop round on the table to face Dean. Dean wandered over, readjusting the screen so that he could read the article, a black tie hung over his shoulders like a stethoscope. Sam watched as his brother's green eyes scanned across the text, processing the information.

"There's been disappearances that stretch back over the past fifty odd years, but no one seems to have paid much attention. Some of the missing cases were local, however abandoned cars have been found along that stretch of the road we passed through. I'm guessing that some travellers have gotten caught up in whatever is lurking in those woods over the years," Sam explained as Dean continued to read.

"So this one dated back to 1959 isn't the only article you found?" Dean asked, looking up from the screen.

"No, there were more. I totalled about sixty disappearances in all," Sam continued.

"You would have thought the police would recognise the similarities," Dean scoffed.

"They didn't look like the most organised operation in town," Sam shrugged.

"I bet you ten dollars it's a wendigo," Dean said.

"Maybe, but would it really nab that many victims in that short a period of time?" Sam argued. "I mean, the 'digo's know how to preserve their victims for a long time, to feed their hunger."

"I don't know a wendigo's dietary requirements, dude. Maybe this one enjoys extra fries with his burger?" Dean said, walking back over to his bed. "Anyway, we should get going and see this Fleetly guy, then we'll have more of an idea of what we're dealing with."

Sam nodded in agreement, and then proceeded to stare out the window, his thoughts drifting away from him. Silence fell among the men for a moment, as weak sunlight crept in through the dusty window, showering down on the worn wooden table. Dean checked his brother's face, noticing how the purple bruises under his eyes had worsened, if that was possible. Sam's face looked drawn, his features pinched. Dean realised that his brother needed to rest soon, otherwise he would crash. He needed Sam to focus on the case, to be alert and ready for action, and he certainly could not continue to hunt in the condition he was in. He could get either of them, or both of them killed, if he didn't have enough energy to prepare himself for the fight.

Dean broke the silence first. "Dude, honestly, go and get ready. Looking at your sorry ass is making me tired."

Sam peeled himself from the chair that he had been sat in all night, his back aching and spasming in protest. To Dean, it looked like it took Sam all his strength to stand. Trudging over to the bathroom, Sam collected his shirt and trousers, and then quietly locked the door behind him. Dean wished there was something he could do, hell even knock his brother out for a few hours, but he knew that it wouldn't do much good.

…

"This is it?" Dean asked sceptically, staring at the dilapidated building that stood before him.

"This is the address listed on his case file," Sam said, perusing the notes he held in his hands.

"It looks like no one's lived here in years," Dean commented. Surveying the building at a glance, Dean noted the dark wooden panels that hung off the side of the house at slanted angles, along with the white paint that was chipping off the panes that framed the fogged windows. The upper levels of the building seemed to meet to form triangles, merging together to make the roof, which was littered with broken mismatched tiles that imitated a patchwork quilt. The first level of the house was shrouded in shadow on account of the roof covering the front porch. The garden was as unkempt as the home itself, if you could call it a home. The lawn was a mass of green flora, dotted with dull flashes of gold from the dandelions. The bushes surrounding the edges of the yard appeared to have grown with wild abandon. No natural light seemed to reach this damned property. Welcoming was not one of the words Dean would use to describe it. Creepy, yes. A dump, most definitely. Welcoming, not so much.

"Perhaps he hightailed it out of town after he dragged himself out of the woods?" Sam suggested, folding the papers into smaller squares and stuffing them back into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Who could blame him when he lived in this," Dean said, gesturing at the house. "Let's take a look inside anyway. There may be something useful lurking in Barbie's dream house."

The brothers made their way up the gravel pathway to the front door, the weeds that had sprouted between the stones grabbing at their feet. They walked up the porch steps, the wood slats groaning beneath the weight of their feet. Standing in front of the door, Sam rapped his knuckles against the wood, wiping cobwebs off his hand. He waited a few moments, but when he was greeted with no response, he knocked on the door again.

"Mr Fleetly, it's the FBI. Open up," Sam shouted, his voice echoing in the quietness of the area. The brothers looked at each other; Dean waited a few more seconds before attempting to open the door. The doorknob gave way under his hand, the door creaking open as the boys peered inside.

Dean entered the property first, wanting to put himself before his brother in case something jumped at them from the darkness that waited inside the building. A dank corridor stretched before him, and Dean was thankful that they were visiting the property in daylight, otherwise he would not have been able to see his own hand in front of his face. The hallway itself was dusty, a dresser pushed against the right wall littered with unopened letters and newspapers. Progressing through the first level of the house, Dean could not find any clue of a being inhabiting the place. There was no dishes left in the sink and the cushions sat in a perfect positions on the sofas in the living room.

Upstairs, Sam did not find much either. All the beds in the three bedrooms were made, the curtains all pulled to. Toothpaste was caked around the inside the bowl of the bathroom sink from when someone had not cleaned up properly. But nothing caught his attention or struck him as being suspicious. Sam was searching the last bedroom when he heard his brother call up to him.

"You find anything up there Sammy?" Dean's voice floated up from the hallway below. The bedroom he was stood in was different from the others; the covers of the bed appeared to have been hastily thrown back, a row of half-full glasses of water sat on a bedside table. However, like the rest of the rooms, dust coated most of the surfaces and the windowsill. In the corner of the room stood a steel cupboard that seemed out of place to Sam, compared to the mahogany furniture that decorated the rest of the bedrooms.

"It seems that someone left in a bit of a hurry, but apart from that, nothing of much interest," Sam shouted back. Inspecting the cupboard more closely, he saw that the door was slightly ajar and that dust had been swiped away from the lock.

"You're telling me that I dressed up in this suit for nothing?" he heard Dean complain. Opening the door, Sam saw a fabric shotgun bag. He noticed that the zip was drawn down, and pulling it out of the locker, he noted that the bag was empty. The sense that something was off swept over him.

"Come on Sam! There's nothing here!" Dean hollered up to his brother. He wondered what was taking him so long. "Sam, come on! Let's get out of this dump." Dean was about to ascend the stairs when a sharp pain blossomed at the back of his skull. A gasp of pain escaped between his lips, and he thought he heard his brother call his name before blackness enveloped him.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Apologies for the late update! I have been away on holiday and suffering from a lack of wifi, and so as a way of an apology, this chapter extra long, almost double the amount that I usually upload. Thank you to everyone that favourited and followed, and a big thank you to FoodLibrary, SamSam, Arw165, sylvia37, Eruthiawen Luin and ackeberlynn for reviewing - your comments really made my day! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and as usual, any comments or criticism will be greatly appreciated! Happy reading!**

 **(P.S. I am having some technical difficulties with this fic updating, so apologies if there are any issues with reading this chapter)**

 **Chapter Five**

"Dean!" Sam shouted, stumbling down the staircase. He came to an abrupt halt at the sight that met his eyes. A large man, who he guessed was Mr. Fleetly, stood at the foot of the stairs. He was cradling a rifle in his hands, clad in only a pair of striped boxers. His mousy brown hair stood to attention on his head, pointing at various directions, and the dark brown spattering of facial hair that caked the bottom half of his face suggested that he had not seen a razor in a few days. The man's dishevelled appearance explained the disarray that Sam had found in the fourth bedroom upstairs, after he had presumably rushed to arm himself when Sam and Dean had arrived at the property. Sam found the sight before him so comical that he nearly burst out laughing. But one look at his brother's slack face, his body draped across the bottom steps of the stairs and his attacker towering over him, told Sam that this situation was far from amusing. Looking back at Mr. Fleetly, Sam noticed deep claw-like marks snaking their way down the left side of the man's bare chest, angry red welts criss-crossing over his shoulder. Sam figured that these scratches continued down his back. His eyes travelled up to the man's face, which sported a disgruntled expression. However, in the man's grey-blue eyes, Sam could sense a fear; this man was clearly on the edge. In fact, he was so on the edge that he was now training his gun at Sam's chest.

"Please, don't shoot," Sam said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"You're not FBI," the man stated, his voice hitching slightly. "Who are you, and why are you here?"

Sam realised that honesty would be the best policy in the present situation. "I'm Sam. This here is my brother Dean," Sam explained calmly, nodding his head at the unconscious form sprawled across the stairs. "Mr Fleetly, we are here to help you."

 _As if that didn't sound creepy_ , Sam thought, silently criticising himself. However, the man hesitated, considering what Sam had said. He looked down at Dean and then back up at Sam. "Name's Michael. How exactly do you think you'll be able to help me?"

"We know that you went missing in the woods. We hunt what you encountered, or beings similar to it at least. We just came here today for some answers."

"And how would that help me?" Michael questioned, continuing to eye Sam suspiciously.

"We just want to know your side of the story. Your experience of what happened in the woods, so we can get rid of the creature once and for all. To stop it from hurting others."

"The creature? You really think you can defeat what I only just about managed to crawl away from?" Michael's eyes started to fill with tears, some of which began to trail lazily down his cheeks.

"It's what we do for a living," Dean muttered, startling both Sam and Michael. He lifted his head slowly to look over at his attacker. When he saw the gun that was aimed at Sam, his expression darkened, anger pooling in his stomach. "Or rather, it's what we do. Now, I would put the gun down if I were you."

Dean didn't bother to provide an explanation, hoping that the loon would notice the hint of danger that was threaded through Dean's words. Michael, however, ignored Dean's threat and continued to point the barrel at Sam. "You can really help?"

"If you tell us what happened, what you saw, then yes," Sam said, lowering his hands slightly. In return, after a few seconds of deliberation, Michael lowered the gun, the barrel now directed at the drab beige carpet that lined the floor.

"You better come through and take a seat."

…

The back of Dean's skull was throbbing in time to his heartbeat, which despite the pain, was beginning to annoy him. He was sat in a stiff armchair in the living room and was absentmindedly rubbing his head, staring around at the dull surroundings. Dean wondered if Michael was aware of the concept of colour, but taking in the room, he doubted he was. It seemed that every aspect of the furniture, carpet and walls were another shade of many different browns.

Michael had cautiously opened the curtains before retreating upstairs to change into more suitable clothing. He had anxiously peered out of the windows around the fabric before pulling the curtains wide open, causing wisps of dust to escape in a swirling frenzy. The particles coated the furniture nearby, adding another layer of grime to the blanket of dirt that had already formed on the oak surfaces. The cushions that Dean found himself resting upon were outdated, the faded tan fabric fraying at the edges. Shadows of indents were visible on the sofa from years of use.

"How is your head?" Sam asked, casting a worried glance over at Dean. He was sat in another armchair across from him.

"I've suffered worse," Dean said, in turn analysing his younger brother's appearance. He noted how Sam was slumped in the chair, looking like he had been drained of energy. Dean guessed that for Sam, finding his sibling knocked out cold at the bottom of the stairs, coupled with a crazy guy toting a gun, was not helping his mental state. Dean silently cursed himself for being caught unaware. More to the fact, he was in a right mind to settle scores with Michael for not only jumping him, but most importantly, threating to shoot his little brother.

"You don't have to put on an act for me," Sam persisted, shuffling on the soft-as-cardboard cushions.

"It's only what you've been doing," Dean retorted. He knew it was a low blow, but that it wasn't exactly a lie either. At the argumentative look that crossed Sam's features, Dean attempted to reassure his brother. "Sam, leave it. I'm fine, honestly. Nothing a few beers can't fix."

Aside from the pounding headache and fatigue that was now weighing down on his limbs, Dean really did feel fine. Just like he was suffering from a typical hangover, something that he was all too familiar with. He knew, though, that Sam would not let the situation drop, and would mother him until he was sure that Dean was back to fighting condition again. It was one thing for Dean to baby his little brother, but it just frustrated him when Sam tried to return the favour. Before Sam could protest further, Michael appeared, scuffling through the door. He walked over to the sofa and perched on the edge of the cushions, as if he was afraid to sit back and relax. After a few moments of silence, he looked up at Sam and spoke.

"So, you said you wanted answers?" he asked quietly, his blue eyes wavering, quickly darting between Sam and Dean. Dean couldn't help but be reminded of a rabbit caught in headlights when he watched Michael's anxious features and jittery actions.

"Just tell us your version of events," Sam said.

"You'll think I'm crazy," Michael said, looking down at the floor. His knee had begun to jump restlessly.

"Like we said before, we deal with this kind of stuff on a daily basis. Whatever you tell us, we've probably seen and dealt with things that seem just as crazy," Sam said earnestly. When Michael did not respond, but instead began to sob silently, Sam smiled sadly. "Take your time Mr. Fleetly."

After he had blown his nose into a rumpled up handkerchief and wiped away his tears, Michael began. "I was just walking through the woods with a couple of friends, Joe and Jacob, when we were jumped. I didn't think we had gone too far. It was starting to get dark; I remember because the last streams of sunlight were slipping through the trees –" Michael's eyes started to drift off, staring into the distance, as he told his story. _He makes a nightmare sound so damn poetic_ ¸ Dean thought exasperatedly. He wanted him to get to the point, so he could get back to the motel room and drink off his headache.

"We were making our way back to the truck when it happened," Mr. Fleetly continued. "I felt something grab at my shoulder, and next thing I knew, I was on the floor. What attacked me moved onto Joe and Jacob, taking them out too. Jacob disappeared through the brushes, however Joe continued to struggle, fighting off something I couldn't quite see. I hid in the undergrowth, tried to stay out of sight. I caught Joe's eye before he was taken –" Michael paused, hesitating. His eyes again filled with tears, and he seemed to choke around his words. "I have never seen such fear in a man's eyes before. I still see him glaring at me before I go to sleep. It's like he's reaching out to me, like he needs my help.

"But I couldn't help him, you see. Took me days to crawl out of those woods; the doctors said I was lucky to make it out alive. If that wretched thing had caught my chest an inch lower, he would have pierced my heart. Game over. I could not see what attacked us; I have no idea who or what it is. If it was human or not. I just remember the terror and panic. Can feel it at night when the chill comes through the windows, creeping up your spine like. But whatever it was, I know for certain that it was unnatural."

Michael stopped talking, looking down at his hands that were folded in his lap. After a few moments, he allowed himself to cry properly, a wall of anxiety brought crashing down. Sam couldn't help but watch the man in sympathy. While he was still concerned for his brother's health after the concussion he suffered, he felt a sense of forgiveness towards Michael, knowing that fear could bring a man to commit the most irrational acts. And given that they were intruding on his property, Sam couldn't blame the man for reacting in the way he did.

"Thank you for your time Mr. Fleetly," Sam said, a kind smile on his lips. He stood, and Dean followed suit. "We'll be in touch if we need any more information."

Michael barely acknowledged the brothers as they left, the mumble of a goodbye escaping between his teeth as he heard the warped front door open and creak shut, signalling their exit.

…

The cool quench of beer caused Dean to emit a sigh, providing evidence for his argument that alcohol could cure anything. He peered over at the sleeping form of his brother, the soft light produced by the television casting a flickering shadow over Sam's body. Only the dark tangle of his hair visible as he lay huddled under the sheets. Dean had managed to persuade, or rather force, his little brother to get some sleep, by allowing Sam to drive them back to the motel. In all honesty, Dean had started to feel the effects of the concussion from the moment he had stood up to leave in Michael's living room, his vision starting to cloud and his head thudding with exhaustion. Try as he might to hide his pain, Sam had seen right through Dean's façade like it was clear water on a lake. He had insisted on driving, and after fifteen minutes of arguing, Sam had made a deal with his brother to attempt to get some rest in return for Dean taking it easy too.

Dean settled down further in his bed, the cheap, rough sheets scratching the bare skin on his arms as he held the cold bottle of beer between his fingers. Condensation seeped off of the glass, trickling over his hand. He felt his eyes droop with exhaustion as he watched an over-repeated horror film on the television, and it wasn't long before he was falling into the comforting realms of sleep, content in the notion that his brother was finally getting some peace.

…

Sam made his way back to the motel, clutching a brown paper bag that contained an apple pie for Dean, a granola bar and apple for himself. In his other hand, he grasped a cardboard holder that balanced two polystyrene cups of coffee. Having always been an early riser, Sam had decided to get breakfast for his brother on account of his concussion. Walking back to the motel, Sam took in his surroundings. Patches of blue were peeking through the miserable grey clouds that had congregated in the sky, a light scent of pine carried on the breeze. Crossing the motel's parking lot, the Impala sat waiting, her body shining after the last wax Dean had given her.

Reaching the motel door, however, something felt amiss to Sam. Edging closer, he noticed that their door was slightly ajar. From inside, he could hear a pained, small voice calling his name. Only one person had been, or rather should have been in their room. Adrenaline rushing in, Sam kicked the door wide open, dropping their breakfast on the concrete floor outside their room. Coffee spilled down over the rough, grained floor, slipping into the cracks of the concrete and cascading over the edge of the pavement into the drain below.

Upon entering the motel room, Sam could not see no sign of his brother in the gloom that was casted by the dark blue curtains that hung in the window. They were still pulled shut, signalling that his brother had not been up and about in the time that he had been away. Moving closer to his brother's bed, the one closest to the door, Sam could just make out that the sheets had been thrown back. But as his eyes adjusted to the dark, a horrible, shredded gape created by a blade in the covers smiled back at him, the fabric beneath the sheets stained dark red, the colour of wine. And then, as if on cue, he could hear Dean's strangled cry.

"Sam!"

Rushing towards the space between the beds, Sam expected to find his brother hunched up in agony on the threadbare carpet. However, Dean was not there, but instead another angry bloodstain. Like a snake, it slithered past Sam, and turning around, he found that it lead to the bathroom. A bloody handprint that looked like a crude imitation of a child's finger-painting was plastered on the yellowing white paint of the door. His brother's pleading continued to assault Sam's ears as he closed in on the door, seeming to increase in volume until he could no longer stand the sound of Dean's cries. The words rattled round in his brain, and no matter how quickly Sam willed his feet to move, he couldn't seem to reach his brother fast enough. The path to the bathroom seemed to last an eternity, and when he finally reached the threshold, he hesitated, fearing what he would find behind the door. But Dean's cries had dissolved into sobs, sounding more hopeless and helpless by the minute.

"Sam… please."

The scene that Sam met as pushed the door open caused him to sink to his knees in horror, crawling over to the beaten form of his brother. He was surprised he could make out the older Winchester's rugged features through the blood that had fountained over his face. Dean was slumped against the side of the bathtub, his bare legs stretched out before him, dressed in only his boxers and a white t-shirt. Or rather, what should have been a white t-shirt, for it had been dyed a bright crimson colour as a result of the wound that Dean's hands were clumsily clutching at. However, whatever effort he had made to stem the flow was unsuccessful; blood continued to pour between his shaking fingers, dripping to the sterile white-tiled floor beneath him. Blood had also managed to seep down his legs, patches of red darkening over his knees where it was beginning to dry.

"Dean, I'm here," Sam managed to choke out. His eyes were watering at the tragedy that sat before him. There was so much blood. "Dean, it's ok. I'm here."

Grabbing a towel from the rail, Sam attempted to apply pressure to where Dean was grabbing at his wound. However, as he lifted up Dean's ruined t-shirt, Sam noticed that his brother had not escaped with just one wound; several grooves were etched up his chest and stomach. The blood was everywhere. _Too much blood_ , Sam blindly thought to himself. It was hopeless. Whoever or whatever had attacked his brother had ensured that they had inflicted enough damage to kill him, and to do so slowly. Sickening realisation overwhelmed Sam; the attacker must have waited until he had left his brother alone, and then began his torture.

But as Sam thought about the attack, his brother and the blood, he found that he could not remember going out in the morning. He could not remember leaving his brother alone with the intent to fetch breakfast. He did not remember leaving the door open or unlocked, and it didn't appear that Dean had welcomed his attacker into the motel room. On the contrary, it seemed to Sam that his brother had been sleeping peacefully in his bed when the attack began. Nothing made sense. Sam could not think over the blood, and unfortunately, there was too much of it.

Just as Sam began to apply pressure to one of Dean's stomach wounds, the one he found most troubling, he felt Dean's fingers fumbling against his hands, trying to hinder his efforts to stop the bleeding. "Please, no… leave me... Where's Sam?"

At that, Sam's gaze snapped up to his brother's blood-streaked face. Beneath the red, Dean's skin had taken on a grey complexion, contrasting greatly to the splash of colour that ran across his forehead, nose and cheeks. Track-marks lined the sides of Dean's face from where tears had trailed down and spilled over his chin. Sam noticed a gash to the left side of Dean's skull that was beginning to swell underneath his dirty-blonde hair. Dean's green eyes were wildly scanning the room, swimming in moisture, his pupils dilated. He couldn't seem to focus on anything in the bathroom, and another wave of nausea swept over Sam as it became clear that Dean could not sense that his brother was there.

"Dean, I'm here," Sam pleaded, grabbing his brother's shoulders. "Can you hear me?"

Dean didn't respond, but continued to gaze around the room, looking everywhere but at his brother. Sam's eyes began to brim, his arms dropping uselessly to his sides as he kneeled before his brother. For a second, he thought that his own sight was obstructed by his tears, as Dean's form appeared to move. Blinking away tears, the sight revealed even more horror that Sam hadn't thought was possible. Dean had started to convulse, his body twitching, blood leaking from between his full lips. His eyes had rolled into the back of his head, his white glare staring up at Sam. Sam began to wonder when this torture would end.

"No, Dean. Hold on!" Sam cried, pulling his brother's shaking body into his arms. "Please stay with me." Sam continued to beg, tears rolling freely down his face. Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes and hours as Dean continued to struggle in Sam's arms, blood soaking through onto the younger sibling's clothes. Eventually, Dean's body weakened in Sam's arms, the remnants of his strength lost.

"Dean," Sam sobbed, burying his face into his older brother's shoulder. Silence ensued, the air humming with loss and pain.

"You really think you could away," a voice broke through the grief. A cold shiver ran along Sam's spine, causing the hairs on his neck to stand to attention. He twisted his head around to look over his shoulder, eyeing up his brother's torturer. Hidden in the darkness, Sam could see the tall form of a man. A fallen angel. Lucifer.

"Did you really think I would allow you to sleep peacefully, when it's so fun to play with you?" he asked, the familiar mocking tone evident in his cool voice. "Come on Sam, you know better than that."

"You bastard!" Sam cried.

"Well, that's not very nice, considering I've allowed you a couple hours of sleep Sammy. I could have left you to suffer." Sam turned to face his broken brother, rage coursing through his veins. He was clutching Dean's body as if it were a lifeline.

"I think it's time you woke up now. Whilst this had been fun, I prefer the 'caged-animal look' you get when you've been awake for over 36 hours," Lucifer's voice rippled through the air. "See you soon, Sammy."

Sam was aware of the bright grin on the damned angel's face, despite having his back turned to him. The edges of his vision blurred, blackness encroaching in on him. He clung to Dean, fighting back against the needle-sharp pains that were stabbing at his eyes, spreading to cradle his head in a net of agony.

"Come on, wake up Sam!"

Sam jerked awake, his eyes flying open. A sheen of cool sweat peppered his brow, his bangs collecting in clumps on his forehead. He blinked sleep and tears out of his eyes to find Dean's concerned face hovering over him.

"Sam? Are you with me?"

"Dean?" Sam managed to wrestle his brother's name out of his throat.

Relief flooded Dean's features, the creases in his brow dissolving. "Man, I thought you wasn't gonna wake up for a moment. You ok?"

Sam said nothing for a moment, merely scrutinising his brother's features. There was no sign of any blood covering his brother's face, or a swelling on the side of his head. He scanned Dean's torso, looking for tell-tale signs of injury. Dean's white t-shirt was clean, aside from the splash stain of spilt beer. His brother was fine. The real Dean was here, strong and confident, sat in front of him wearing a confused expression. He was not the broken, pleading wretch that petrified Sam in his dream. It was only a dream. A nightmare.

"Sammy, are you ok?" Dean repeated, his sharp eyes searching his younger sibling's for a sign of coherent thought. "I didn't want to wake you, but hell, you was gonna cause yourself injury the way you was rolling round on the bed."

Before Dean had a chance to react, Sam had sat up, wrapping his arms tightly around his older brother's shoulders. He could feel Sam shaking, indicating to him that the nightmare must have been particularly brutal.

"Hey kiddo, it's fine. It was only a dream," Dean reassured him, returning the hug and rubbing his hand across Sam's back.

Sam pulled away, his bloodshot eyes focusing on a light fixture over Dean's shoulder. "It was too real," he mumbled. Flashbacks of the nightmare repeated in his mind, a horrific sequence of images coming to the forefront, terrorising him. He closed his eyes in distress at the replay of the gruesome images of Dean's battered body.

"Don't let me fall asleep again," Sam's whisper was barely audible as he lay back down and rolled over to face the wall, the right side of his face buried in the pillow. The way in which the younger Winchester had drawn the bedsheets up to his chin had Dean considering that that was possibly a better option for his sleep-deprived sibling.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Apologies again for a delayed update! I struggled a bit whilst writing this chapter, so any comments or criticism will be greatly appreciated. Thank you to those that have favourited and followed, and a big thank you to FatalFramer, Eruthiawen Luin and SamSam for reviewing - your words and kindness mean an awful lot to me! As always, happy reading!**

 **Riding the Storm – Chapter Six**

Dean squinted in the harshness of the sunlight, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the light. The blistering midday sun glared through the pines, the branches creating shadows that stretched like fingers along the grass verge and onto the strip of highway, grabbing at passing vehicles. Dean could feel the heat burning down on him, and sensing that the conditions in the woods would soon become humid and unbearable, he regretted wearing his grey parka. Returning his attention to the trunk of the Impala, Dean zipped the duffel bag closed, readjusting a rifle that was obstructing the opening. He hauled the bag over his shoulder with a grunt, slamming the door of the trunk down. He then made his way over to Sam, who was standing just outside of the first line of trees.

"Enjoying the view, Sammy?" Dean asked, thumping his brother on the back. Sam jumped at Dean's touch, flinching out of his grasp. Not understanding how it was possible, it appeared to Dean that Sam looked worse. _A corpse would look more alive_ , Dean thought grimly to himself. Scanning his sibling's face, Dean noted how Sam's usually bright hazel eyes were now lost in the violet rings that surrounded them. He felt frustration for Sam, as it was obvious that the few hours of sleep he had gained had made no improvement, before rest had been cruelly snatched back from him. But what alarmed Dean further was the haunted expression that crossed his brother's face when he had touched him.

Sam returned his attention to a piece of paper that he held in shaking hands. Looking awkwardly over the taller man's shoulder, Dean glimpsed an aged map, creases decorating the yellowing paper.

"The map give you any hints, Dora?" Dean mocked, sensing the bitchface he got in return, without seeing it. Choosing to not rise to the bait, Sam ignored his brother, instead stretching out his hand to Dean.

"If you shut up and pass me the compass, I might be able to figure out which direction we're supposed to be headed in."

Dean handed the battered device to him, sunlight glinting off the scratched glass surface. Sam bent his head down again to study the paper. Dean rounded in front of him, peering over the edge of the map, trying to read where Sam's thoughts were running.

"Is that a mine there?" Dean asked, pointing to a tiny symbol about three quarters of the way up the map, situated slightly to the west side of the woods. Dean watched as Sam's tired eyes scanned the page, his eyebrows pulling together in concentration as he checked the list of symbols that were printed along the bottom left corner of the map.

"Looks like it," Sam said, nodding thoughtfully. "Would certainly fit the profile of a wendigo, as they like to hibernate somewhere dark and dank."

"Not exactly what I would list in my property requirements. How long do you think it will take us to walk there?"

"Probably around a couple of hours," Sam shrugged. "Depends upon the pace of our walking."

"Of course it won't take long for you, Sasquatch. Some of us aren't fortunate enough to have stilts like you."

"Are you saying you can't keep up with me? Maybe you should lead the way; wouldn't want you trailing behind now, would I?" Sam smirked, folding the map up into a tiny square and inserting it into the top pocket of his jacket.

"Don't worry about me, little brother. Someone's got to protect your ass," Dean laughed, following Sam as he pushed through the trees, and into the forest that lay ahead of them.

…

Leaves rustled around boots and branches snapped under toes as the boys made their way through the woods. The afternoon sun strobed down though the green canopy above them, baking Dean in his coat, as he had predicted. He swiped his sleeve across his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had collected along his brow. Sam kept shaking his head in futile attempts to whip the bangs out of his eyes, without finding much success. Both scanned the dusty floor, brushes and tree trunks for any sign of human or supernatural life, but two and a half hours of searching had only presented the brothers with a used Kleenex and a size ten hiking boot. The heat and humidity was not letting up, but Dean's patience had disappeared pretty quickly, boredom and frustration takings its place.

"Have you lost your tongue or something, Sammy?" Dean called out, dragging his feet through the debris on the ground. His brother had been quiet for the last hour or so, and Dean got the impression that Sam's silence was not a result of a desire to focus on the hunt. Dean could tell that beneath Sam's jacket his shoulders were hunched, tensing with what he assumed was stress. And his little brother's lack of communication was reinforcing Dean's concern over what had happened the night before.

"No, I'm just trying to concentrate."

"Well, you're holding up such brilliant conversation. Whatever you do, don't talk my ear off." When Sam didn't reply, Dean decided to take a softer approach to get his brother to talk. "Come on, Sam, you know how I hate these chick-flick moments. If something's bothering you, talk about it. You know, dad always said –"

"It's never a good idea to be distracted on a hunt. I know."

"Then, what's troubling you?" Dean persisted.

"I'm fine," Sam mumbled, his voice lost over the distance between the two men.

The older Winchester sighed. "Quit the bullshit, Sam. What happened in the nightmare?"

Dean knew he had hit the bullseye, as Sam stopped abruptly in his tracks, causing Dean to nearly stumble into him. Sam turned around, and Dean was surprised to see tears swimming in Sam's eyes, his face a mixture of pain and sadness.

"Please Dean, I don't want to talk about it," Sam pleaded, turning back around again. For a moment Dean nearly backed down, but his worry for his brother surpassed any idea of letting the issue lie. Stepping forward and grabbing Sam's shoulder, he twisted the younger man around to face him.

"It's obviously bothering you," Dean said sternly. Sam, however, had initiated a staring contest with the dusty forest floor, and remained silent, refusing to meet Dean's eyes. "Sam, it's only a dream. Unless, it wasn't a vision, was it?"

At that, Sam's head snapped up. "No, it wasn't a vision."

"Well, then what was it?" Dean asked, starting to become exasperated with Sam's lack of co-operation. "We won't be moving from this spot unless you tell me."

Sam looked into Dean's eyes, knowing not to challenge his brother. He didn't know where to begin, the words fumbling over each other in his mind. Things became progressively worse as the horrific images of Dean's tortured body flooded into his mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut to stop another flow of tears. When he opened them again, concern and worry was etched over every feature of Dean's face, his eyebrows arching together, green eyes wavering as he searched Sam's face. He dropped his arm to his side, calloused palms facing Sam in almost a gesture of surrender.

"Sam, you're scaring me now. What is so awful that you can't tell me?" Dean paused, his expression bordering thoughtfulness, as though he was trying to solve a puzzle. "Why did you ask me to never let you sleep again?"

"It's Lucifer," Sam said simply, a stray tear rolling idly down his cheek.

"Lucifer?"

"Yes, Lucifer. He wanted to give me false hope, I guess, allow me to sleep for a while. Turns out, he can manipulate my dreams too, as well as reality," Sam laughed hopelessly, no humour evident in his voice.

Dean comprehended where this was going, nausea starting to rise in his throat, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. Of course it had been too easy to get Sam off to sleep. He knew that his brother was tormented to the point that any attempt at rest was futile, but the fact that Lucifer could invade Sam's dreams felt even more perverse. How could he protect Sam from something that he desperately needed? Dean wanted to know what Sam had dreamed, but feared what answer the question would bring.

"What happened in the dream, Sammy?" Dean asked gently.

Sam finally responded a few moments later, coughing lightly against tears. "I had gone out to get some breakfast. When I got back to the motel room, the door was open. I went inside, but couldn't find you in the room. It was dark, and there was blood everywhere, bedsheets torn and strewn about. And I could hear you crying, calling out for me. I found you on the bathroom floor, and god, Dean, you were a mess," Sam paused, the horrific scene replaying his mind. Then, more words tumbled out in a horrid succession. "You kept calling for me, you was bleeding everywhere. I tried to comfort you, but you couldn't see me or hear me. I couldn't do anything. You just kept asking for me, even when I reassured you that I was there. I didn't think it was going to end, and then... then you… you died," Sam finally stopped, bowing his head slightly. He suddenly threw his arms up in the air, looking up to the heavens. "And then Lucifer appears, boasting of the fact that he can torture me whenever, however he likes. I thought for one minute, for one horrible minute, that you were dead."

Silence spread over the two brothers for what felt like hours, before Dean spoke. "It was only a dream, Sam. I'm fine," he said, feeling stupid. He didn't know what else to say; what could he possibly tell his brother? He had not expected Sam to have responded in the way he did, had not anticipated that his nightmare would involve him. But then Lucifer knew where to hit Sam, where it would hurt most, and had come to the conclusion that torturing Dean would torture Sam also. He wished there was a way to return to Lucifer, to inflict pain upon the damned angel, to free Sam from the exhausting torment he was enduring, but he knew that there was nothing he could do. The helplessness that came with his brother's predicament made Dean's blood boil with fury, itching to throw a few punches to release the frustration.

Sam sniffed, wiping his jacket sleeve over his cheeks. He looked at Dean, his eyes red and puffy, a grim smile spreading over his lips. "We should get going, before it starts to get dark," he said quietly, turning away.

"Sam," Dean said. The younger sibling twisted back round. "It really was only a dream. I'm not going anywhere."

"I know."

Dean wanted to say so much more, to tell his brother that everything was ok, that everything was going to be ok. But he knew he could make no such promises, and so he left the unspoken words hanging in the air, hoping that Sam could, at the very least, sense that he was not suffering alone.

…

The brothers stumbled on for another half an hour, not finding much hidden between the trees. The sun had started to drop slightly, its light no longer piercing through the pines. The humidity, however still hung in the air like a bad small. Dean was no longer sure if they were going to find the mines, their surroundings all merging into a green state of sameness. Dean pulled the compass out of his pocket, checking whether they were headed in the right direction; he was certain they were walking in circles. His pace had started to slow, and he saw that Sam was too struggling under the inescapable conditions.

"Let's stop for a second," Dean suggested, as they emerged in another leaf-strewn clearing. Setting the duffel bag down on the floor, Dean crouched and fished out a water bottle. Taking a swig, he cringed at the lukewarm contents. Passing the bottle to Sam, he stood up and took in their surroundings, flipping the compass between his fingers. The view was the same all around; trees, trees and more trees. He thumbed for the flask in his jeans pocket, his mouth almost watering at the thought of the sharp taste of whiskey, when he remembered that the flask had also been adventuring through the woods with him. The idea of warm alcohol did not appeal to Dean, and he returned the flask to his pocket. Turning around from inspecting the bushes, Dean watched Sam as he too searched the undergrowth over the other side of the clearing.

"You finished with the bottle yet, waterboy?" Dean grinned, ducking as the empty bottle sailed through the air towards his head. "You're a poor shot, little brother."

"Whatever, jerk," he heard Sam mutter, a small smile playing across the younger man's face.

Dean was about to respond when he heard a _crunch_. He whistled quietly, attracting his brother's attention. He raised a finger to his lips, and then pulled his hand back to his ear, signalling that they should listen out, that something was lurking behind the trees. Edging around the clearing, both brothers began searching again underneath the shrubs and behind the trees. Nothing had caught Sam's eye until he noticed a trail of branches that lay snapped and broken across the forest floor. He wasn't sure if they had walked that way, but he could not see any boot imprints littering the floor, suggesting something else had either left the clearing, or was closing in on it. He was about to alert Dean of his findings when he heard the bushes rustling behind him.

The boys turned, inspecting the clearing, but found that everything was still. Minds working in synchronisation, Sam stalked over to the duffel bag and passed Dean a machete, favouring a rifle for himself. Meeting in the middle of the clearing, the Winchesters stood back to back, bodies tensed and ready for battle. They watched for a sign of movement around them, but yet again, everything remained motionless. Dean was about to relent when he saw a figure race behind the trees in the distance. The movement had only lasted a second, but he was sure of what he had seen. A mere blur, almost transparent. A wendigo.

"Ugly incoming," Dean muttered, now completely aware of his surroundings, as if his senses were dialled up to full power. Beads of sweat trickled down from Dean's scalp, threading down his neck, tickling his back. He felt Sam shift behind him, and knew that his brother was preparing himself for the fight. They didn't have time to carve protective symbols, to defend themselves against the wendigo. They would have to attack the sucker face on.

Leaves, bushes and branches began to shift and jostle before Dean's eyes, and he knew that the creature was zoning in on them. He knew that the machete was practically useless against the wendigo, but he hoped that in some way he could defend himself with it. He itched to reach for the duffel bag, wishing he had asked for the flare gun, but he knew that the wendigo would be on them before he had chance to react. There was no point in running away; the wendigo could outrun them. And while the machete would have next to no effect on the monster whatsoever, Dean felt more comfortable holding it.

The forest seemed to come alive around the brothers, a complete contrast to the silence that had coated it before. The trees appeared to sway, parting for the wendigo to reach its prey. The insistent hiss of the bushes brushing against each other and the sound of birds crying, escaping from the mayhem below, echoed through the pines. Just as nature reached its crescendo, the noise and movement stopped. Dean waited, anticipation clawing at him. Then before he had chance to react, to swipe out with the machete, a blow hit him beneath his chin, snapping his head up to the sky. He fell to the floor, clutching the compass, the blade flying from his grasp and tumbling into the bushes. Sam twisted round, extending his hand to help his brother up. Dean felt blood trickle from his chin, the sting of a cut sliced deep into bone. Dean opened his mouth to assure Sam he was fine, that they needed to be careful, when he felt something grab his shoulder, hauling him backwards.

"Dean!" he heard Sam cry.

He fell into the undergrowth, landing sprawled across the bushes, the stalks and roots pressing and stabbing into his back. Dean raised himself up, catching sight of his brother. The younger Winchester swerved and turned, edging closer to his brother whilst looking for a sign of the creature. Sam raised his rifle slightly, readying himself to strike as if it were a bat if necessary.

Dean tried to pull himself from the brushes, but felt something grasp his bicep, pinning him back down against the ground. He tried to struggle out of the hold, his back scratching against the branches beneath him. He waited for the moment when the creature would drag him off, reminded of the events at Blackwater Ridge. However, he heard a gunshot ring, and felt the grip loosen on his shoulder, an agonised scream piercing his eardrums. Dean tilted his head up to see his brother stood in front of him. Sam, though, was looking wildly around the forest, and that's when Dean heard it too; another rustling sound was emanating from further away in the woods. Something was heading towards them. Dean could sense the wendigo behind him, waiting, anticipating the arrival of whatever was racing through the pines.

Dean's focus was brought back to Sam as he saw his brother fall to the floor, his legs pulled out from under him. He felt the wendigo that was initially poised behind him zip past his body, a cold _whoosh_ of air caressing his face as the creature took off towards Sam. Dean managed to raise himself again, a sharp pain piercing through his wrist as something crunched beneath his hand. He stared out at the clearing, watching helplessly as Sam clawed at the ground beneath him, trying to fight against the pull, his panicked gaze searching for his brother. Dean peeled himself from the ground, dashing after his sibling. He slammed his body to the dirty forest floor, grasping for a hold of Sam's fingers. Sam reached for Dean, the brothers' eyes meeting for a second. Realisation crossed the younger sibling's features, before he was dragged away through the undergrowth, disappearing behind the trees and out of sight.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Massive apologies for such a delayed post, I have really struggled with this chapter, and unfortunately have been bogged down with other things happening at this moment in time. A big thank you for FatalFramer, cammiemorris7, Jen, Eruthiawen Luin and SamSam for their comments, and also many thanks to those that have favourited and followed. Deepest apologies for making you wait so long; I hope it's worth it, and that you enjoy this chapter. Any comments or criticism will be welcomed and cherished, they mean an awful lot to me! Without much further ado, happy reading! :D**

 **Chapter Seven**

The woods flew by in a brown-green blur as Sam hurtled around the trees. Twigs ruthlessly scratched at his arms and face, while branches that seemingly reached for the sky stabbed at his eyes. Sam clawed at the filthy ground beneath him, trying to rebel against the pull that was dragging him further away into the recesses of the woods. But it was hopeless. He was speeding through the undergrowth at such an alarming rate that he could make no sense of his whereabouts, all of it fading into sameness before him.

He had tried calling for Dean, but his attempt at a cry for help had been thwarted by a tree stump to the chest, as the wendigo had hurled Sam's body carelessly behind him. All the air had escaped from Sam's lungs, causing him to gasp breathlessly, desperately trying to recapture the oxygen that had been forced out of him. He was, however, thankful that he had not heard, or _felt_ , a snap; a cracked rib would not help the crappy situation he had found himself in.

Sam's head was starting to spin, the pines twisting in mangled directions above him, their branches contorting like broken limbs. A sense of nausea swept over him, and as his body zig-zagged across the floor, an acidic taste rose in his throat, the unwelcome sensation warming his cheeks. Despite the speed of the wendigo and the way in which Sam fumbled around the bushes and trees, the creature did not relinquish his deathly tight grip on Sam's ankle.

A tree trunk came dangerously close to Sam's face, the scent of pine wafting over to greet the helpless Winchester's nose, but slipped away again. However, the trunk was replaced by a boulder, and unfortunately this time, Sam's head collided spectacularly with the rock, stars swirling in his vision. A high-pitched ringing sounded in his ears, matching the repetitive drumbeat of the wendigo's feet. Sam tried to regain control of his senses, to focus through the cacophony of chaos in his head, but the beat doubled, becoming inconsistent. Gazing stupidly ahead, Sam could make out a transparent form racing towards him.

The ringing in his ears slowly started to subside, but another sound, a terrible sound, took its place. A cruel cackle resounded through the forest, followed by another. Deep, mocking vocal tones reverberated around him, bouncing off of the trees, following Sam to his prison. The wendigo did not seem to notice the crowing, but as the footfalls that pounded behind them became more insistent, increasing in pace, the wendigo sprinted faster still. In consequence, Sam was flung across the dirty floor, dust smoking upwards, tickling his nose and scraping against his desert-dry throat. Dead, crinkled leaves flew towards the sky in Sam's wake, cascading down and resting on the tall silhouette of their pursuer. The amused laughter continued to assault Sam's ears, intensifying in volume, pressing in on his senses. And still the wendigo did not release its hold of Sam's ankle.

The trees seemed to part for the green form, until it shook the leaves off, again maintaining the translucent disguise it wore before. The figure was gaining on them, and Sam panicked furthermore. Whoever claimed him for their own, the cornered Winchester was certain that it would not end well for him. Whatever was chasing him was about as good as the monster that was currently dragging him around the block. The wendigo once again sensed that something was advancing on them, and tugged harshly at Sam's ankle. Before he could prepare himself, Sam's forehead struck a tree trunk, and with that, his consciousness blurred into dark obscurity. The last thing he recognised before oblivion claimed him was the incessant laughter, the echoes of the familiar melody of Lucifer's joy lulling him into restless sleep.

…

Dean raked thin fingers through his hair, his dirt-crusted nails catching in blonde knots. He wanted to yell and scream, stamp his biker-booted feet like a five year-old having a tantrum, but he knew it would do no good. His brother was gone. Sam may as well have disappeared in a cloud of smoke, for one moment his lanky brother had been looming over him, and then in an impossible instant, the younger Winchester was sliding away into the vast greenness that stretched out menacingly before the older sibling.

Yanking his hands away from his head, Dean grimaced as pain sliced through the bottom of his right palm. Somehow, he had managed to crack the compass under his weight, the glass cover splintering from the pressure of Dean's calloused hand. In revenge, a broken shard had slit through Dean's skin, tracing its way up to his wrist. Inspecting the wound closer, he knew it would require stitches, and noted in frustration that it certainly wouldn't benefit from the dust of the forest floor.

However, Dean had bigger fish, or rather _wendigoes,_ to fry. He had no doubt in his mind that there were two wendigoes hiding the woods, and was admittedly confused by the revelation. He had not known that it was possible for two 'digoes to co-exist; he certainly did not expect them to live together in harmony. _Too much hunger for one forest_ , he thought to himself. What Dean wasn't sure of was why the wendigo had dropped him, targeting Sam instead. He figured it had something to do with the shots fired by Sam, that his little brother had pissed the fugly off. At that, Dean smirked, proud of his sibling's courage. But that explanation did not sit right with the agitated Winchester. He decided, though, that for the moment it did not matter; what did matter was getting to his brother before he became the wendigoes' next dish of the day. Turning to the duffel bag, in the hopes of finding some spare bandages, Dean realised with elevated irritation that the damned creatures had swiped the bag on their escape of the clearing.

"Son of a BITCH!" Dean shouted as loud as possible. The commotion caused by Dean's anger sent dozens of tiny, black birds scattering from the top branches of the pines. Pulling a red bandana out of his parka pocket, Dean circled it around his hand, knotting it tightly. The veins on the inside of his wrist lit up in bright, lilac-blue streaks, and Dean hissed in pain from the scratch of the fabric against his wound. Satisfied with his handiwork, the hunter stalked off through the wild undergrowth, stomping down bushes and cracking branches in pursuit of his brother.

…

Sam's head was pounding; he was pretty sure a freight train had run over it. What else would explain the hammering that was resounding through his head? He wished it would stop, and then maybe he would be able to open his eyes. The smell of damp and rot rose to meet his nostrils, and he scrunched his nose up, cringing in disgust. The pain in his skull started to subside slightly, and Sam decided that opening his eyes sooner rather than later would probably be the best plan of action. Hopefully then he would be able to regain some control of his thoughts and memories. But when he forced his eyelids open, to his bewilderment, nothing met his eyes. Had he really opened them, or were they still shut tight? He couldn't be sure.

The younger Winchester was soon to become furthermore confused; his attempts to rub sleep from his eyes, to move his arms _a tiny inch_ , were hindered by ropes that suspended him from the ceiling. _How did I get here,_ he wondered to himself, and slowly memories trickled back. With a start, he struggled against the restraints to no avail. Groaning dejectedly, he resigned himself to helplessness; he just hoped that Dean found him before dinnertime. Otherwise, he would quite literally be toast.

Fortunately, Sam soon found that he could actually see, his visibility becoming clearer as his eyes adjusted to the darkness that swamped the large cavern he had been strung up in. Far to his left, tracks lay across a compacted dirt floor, the dust peppering the rusted iron. With this, Sam realised that he had been brought to the abandoned mines. Squinting at the walls that seemed to stretch far away, panels of wood supporting the structure and ceiling were just about visible. Sam could make out the shape of an opening not too far in the distance, however the dark swallowed up what his sight could not reach.

Scanning the rest of the space, Sam noticed sickeningly that piles of bones had been collected in corners and around the edges of the room. Amongst the leftovers, he spotted their duffel bag, along with other rucksacks and bags, dumped in a far corner. The contents were strewn haphazardly around the ground, a littering of weapons and knives along with mundane items such as mobile phones, wallets, bottles of water, aerosol cans and empty chocolate wrappers. _Dean will be pissed when he realises our stuff has gone_ , Sam reflected to himself, grinning slightly as he imagined his brother's thunderous reaction.

"Oh, he certainly will be," a voice mused. Sam felt a coldness wash over him as cool as liquid nitrogen.

"You were the one laughing," Sam ground out between his teeth.

"Sam, you're amusing to torture at the best of times," Lucifer laughed. Sam could sense the bright smile on the damned angel's face, and was not surprised when the smirk was turned on him, as Lucifer rounded in front of Sam's hanging body, inspecting the younger Winchester's features. "But this, Sam, this is even better. I haven't got to even lift a finger. This is wonderful!"

Sam didn't respond, instead training a murderous glare at his tormentor. Cold blue eyes pierced into his own, twinkling with delight, and Sam wished for not the first time that Lucifer could leave him be for five minutes. Some part of him felt like he deserved what Lucifer gave him, payback for all the bad he had done, but all he wanted was a respite, a chance to collect himself from the torture that surrounded him permanently. And wasn't playing meat on a hook for a wendigo torture enough? Lucifer's face dropped as he gazed over Sam's face.

"Come on Sam, you're not making it any fun for me!"

At that, the sound of footsteps echoed from off in the distance. Two sets of footsteps. This puzzled Sam, before fear kicked in; something, or rather _somethings,_ were coming to get him. Sam strained against his bindings, trying to twist his wrists free of the rope. Instead he was presented with a sharp, burning sensation against his skin. The restraints did not loosen one tiny bit, and the footsteps were growing louder.

 _Thud, thud. Thud, thud._

"Don't look now Sammy, looks like we've company!"

Panic rose, flooded through his veins, beads of sweat trickling down his back, threading across his forehead. He needed to get down. Needed to get out of the cavern, out of the mines and far away.

 _Thud, THUD. Thud, THUD._

"I could really do with some popcorn. Aren't you looking forward to the show, Sammy?"

"Quit calling me, Sammy!" Sam hissed, yanking at the ropes. His fingers were starting to numb, pins and needles spreading through his hands.

 _THUD, THUD. THUD, THUD._

"Someone is techy! Are you really going to miss the pièce de résistance?"

Sam's heart slammed against his chest, adrenaline causing his arms and legs to shake. However, to Sam's relief, the cord started to loosen. With one final, harsh tug, his sore wrists slipped free. He crash down to the floor awkwardly, a sharp pain stabbing up through his foot to his ankle as he landed in a low crouch. He turned to stand, facing the entrance in a bid for escape, but stopped when two wendigoes slipped into the room.

…

The trail that lead to Sam was much easier to follow than Dean anticipated. He wasn't sure whether the wendigoes were sloppy, or if they were stringing him along, but the destruction caused by their escape had left a pathway as clear as the yellow brick road. After a good hour or so of trekking through the woods, careful to watch out for any creeping 'digoes, Dean finally reached his destination.

The woods gave way to a bank that dropped slightly to meet a beat-up shack. The dilapidated entrance to the abandoned mines appeared as if it would collapse at any slight breeze of the wind. The dead grass surrounding it sprouted out of the ground like brittle, yellow knives, and the air around the site seemed stagnant, as lifeless as the earth that closed around it. The oppressive heat remained, pressing in on Dean, making his T-shirt cling to his back. Edging closer to the opening, Dean pulled out his Zippo, the flame fighting against the all-consuming darkness that stretched out before him.

The warm, orange light casted by the flame licked at the shadows, softening their sharp edges. Dean paced through tunnels that all seemed to merge together, giving the illusion that he was walking in circles. As he made his way along the passages, he noticed items scattered along the filthy floor. Peering inside a duffel bag suspiciously like his own, Dean was disappointed to find that it was stuffed with a wallet, blanket, torch with no batteries and empty wrappers. He noticed that crumbs littered the floor, which again made no sense to Dean. Something was off about these wendigoes, and he couldn't quite place his finger on it.

Making his way along a track, a distinct thudding noise vibrated down the tunnel to meet him. Footsteps. That would only mean trouble. Picking up his speed, Dean peered in on any cavern that opened up to him, hoping to find his little brother inside. All the while, the footsteps grew ever louder, and Dean knew time was running out. A sense of desperate panic washed over him, until he heard the footsteps halt. The air seemed to buzz in anticipation, and Dean waited to hear a terrible scream, frozen in fear. Shaking himself from his terror, he sprinted down a tunnel, the flame of the Zippo nipping at the skin on his thumb.

To his left, an archway materialised before him. Glancing inside, an immediate tidal wave of relief crashed over Dean. There was Sam, crouching in the middle of the room. Sam – his little brother, safe and in his sights. But as his eyes adjusted to gloom, Dean noticed two agonisingly thin figures circling his brother. Dean gulped, fighting against the dry atmosphere that was clinging to his throat, making it difficult to breathe against the lump that was wedged there. Dean glimpsed his brother's face, and saw the horror that settled there, his shadowed, hazel eyes widened in fear, his arched eyebrows reaching up to his tousled brown bangs. Time had run out. The wendigoes were hungry, and Sam was their meal.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: First and foremost, ma-hoo-sive apologies for such a long period between updates – I am preparing to go back to university, and amongst other things in life, I have recently been bogged down by other commitments. A big thank you to Jen, cammiemorris7, SamSam, Eruthiawen Luin, FoodLibrary, FatalFramer and Kas3y for their lovely reviews - your kind words really made my day and encouraged me to carry on writing! And thank you also to those that have favourited and followed. This, sadly, is the final chapter and I hope you all enjoy it. This fic has been such a joy to write, and I am extremely thankful to everyone that has read, reviewed, favourited and followed – you have given me the confidence and motivation to continue writing more! Without much further ado, here is the last instalment; any comments or criticism is welcome, and I hope you enjoy reading this chapter! :D**

 **Chapter Eight**

Dean understood now. The ribs that protruded sickeningly, like rungs on a ladder along the stretched sides of their bodies; the collar bones that shunted out in sharp points; the bony fingers and knobbly knees accentuated under translucent skin. These wendigoes weren't just hungry, they were starving. Their towering frames listed over his brother, the bumps that ran up the length of their spines shifting under their grey hide. The gangly figures prowled around Sam, their dark eyes sparkling with ferocious determination. They may as well have tied bibs around their shoulders and grabbed some cutlery, as it became clear to Dean that they were about to tuck in.

As Dean watched the horrible scene unfold before him, his stomach clenched and twisted, protesting at the sight that met his eyes. In the centre of the room, Sam was pressed low to the compacted ground, his features cast in black, livid shadows. Dean could just about make his brother's pinched features, a round bump that shone like a purple bulb on the right side of his forehead, and the ever-present bruises that underlined his now-panicked hazel eyes.

Dean's attention, however, was drawn to the way in which Sam held himself. Leaning heavily to the left, his right foot barely touched the floor. He had his palms planted firmly against the dirt, thin fingers stretched out wide. Raw, angry red welts that braceleted Sam's wrists indicated to Dean that his brother had been strung up, and in an effort to free himself, had injured his ankle. Fury bubbled inside Dean's stomach, but he couldn't help the slight feeling of exasperation that crossed him. _Just what we needed_ , he thought. _I'm gonna be the one hauling your ass back through those woods after this, if we survive_ this _that is._

As the crooked silhouettes shifted around him, Sam glanced up at them, fear and panic swimming in his hazel eyes. But as soon as the terror had washed over his features, it was replaced just as quickly with a set jaw and the knitting together of thick eyebrows. Despite his injury, the youngest Winchester was not going down without a fight. A grim smile stretched across Dean's lips at his brother's determination and bravery, but as Sam brought his right foot down, he emitted a low gasp that whispered around the cavern. He saw his brother try to recover composure, to hinder the sound that had slipped from his mouth, but he had already been heard. The wendigoes inched closer, sensing the vulnerability of their prey, preparing to make their move. Silently cursing himself, Dean knew he had to do something, and do it quick.

Scanning the dank cavern, his sight pushing through the darkness, Dean spotted their duffel bag tossed against a wall, its content strewn haphazardly over the floor. But he noted with frustration that the bag was too far away to creep over to without attracting unwanted attention. However, amongst their weapons, other bags and mundane objects had been littered along the wall, and upon spotting the items stowed away in one particularly torn rucksack, an idea formed in Dean's mind. Quietly entering the room, Dean snuck around its perimeter. He pressed his back tightly against the rough wall, the back of his hands scratching against the hard texture. He hastily kept glancing up at the wendigoes and back down at where he was placing his feet, treading carefully so as to not crush any bones under the heavy soles of his boots. Peering up towards his brother, he saw that the picture had not changed; the wendigoes were still waltzing around his brother. _Hold on Sammy,_ he thought desperately, _I've got a plan._

Reaching the rucksack, Dean cautiously searched through the contents, careful to not make too much of a commotion. Finally, he pulled out the aerosol can that had caught his attention from the entryway. Shaking the deodorant tin near his ear, he heard the muted sloshing of the liquid moving about inside. _About time these wendigoes freshened up a bit,_ Dean grinned as he reached into the pocket of his jeans. His fingers met the coolness of metal as he retrieved his trusty lighter once again. However, as he flicked the switch, the lighter merely hissed at him, uncooperative. _Son of a bitch_. Trying again, the lighter continued to disobey, a harsh click snapping at him. On the third attempt, he was finally successful, the orange flame licking at the skin on his thumb. But before Dean could grasp at the small sense of the success that was washing over him, a low growl emanated from across the room. Sam was no longer the only object of attention.

...

Two pairs of black, gleaming eyes glared down at Sam, their ferocity conveying their hunger. He was in _deep_ trouble, and not for the first time in his life, he really believed that he had finally reached the end of the road. He was, after all, beginning to push his luck. How many times had he come close to death, and yet narrowly escaped its eager grasp? Hell, he'd even died, made a quick-trip to hell, and emerged again on the other side. Not exactly shiny and brand new, but he was here all the same.

The sickly thin figures of the wendigoes loomed above him, slowly, torturously creeping closer to him, yet all the while, lingering at a slight distance, teasing him with their presence. However, by being in close proximity to the creatures, Sam was allowed insight into what was so different about these particular 'digoes. For starters, the fact that there was two of them was puzzling to Sam, and he wondered at how they had managed to survive together. But he noticed that whilst their piercing gaze remained trained on him for the majority of the time, they occasionally snapped their attention up to one another, an odd spark gleaming in their dark eyes. They scanned each other's every movement; every small twitch of the head; the curling of long, pale fingers; the slight step of webbed toes shifting silently forward. These wendigoes were not just closing in on their prey; they were challenging one another, biding their time to see who would react first. Either way, Sam knew that he was about to become at least one wendigoes' meal, and with a broken ankle, he knew that the outlook was bleak for him. He just wished that Dean was there to provide support, to have his back, or even to call him a damsel-in-distress for the predicament he had managed to fall into. But he was alone.

However, not entirely, for a voice rang out to meet his ears.

"This is it, Sammy. The curtains are closing, lights are going down." Just outside the range of his wendigo-obscured vision, Sam could make out the relaxed silhouette of Lucifer. He was lounging across a pile of bones that spilled over the floor, surveying the scene before him with his customary white, shining grin plastered on his smug face. "Dean won't save the princess this time."

 _Go to hell_ , Sam seethed, gritting his teeth in pain, anger and humiliation.

"Been there, done that, got the T-shirt and photograph key-ring. Wasn't as warm as I would have thought, but I'm sure you know all about that."

Sam cursed inwardly, shifting slightly to retain a defensive position. In his effort to move, he grazed his right foot against the floor, which sent sharp stabs of pain shooting through his ankle and up his calf. He crushed his lips together to prevent the cry of pain that threatened to escape from his lips.

"Curse at me all you want Sam, it's not going to change a thing."

Lucifer rose from the putrid chaise he had been resting upon, and began strutting around the wendigoes. All of the circling was beginning to make Sam feel nauseous, an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia and dizziness kicking in as the three menacing figures drew in on him.

"What I'm wondering is, where will you go when this –" the damned angel gestured at the creatures sauntering around him, like boxers in a ring, "- when it's all over? Will you be knocking on heaven's door? Or will you be reunited with me again, in hell? It's food for thought, if you will excuse the pun."

Anger boiled in Sam, along with fear at the prospect of returning to bitter embrace of Lucifer in the cage. He would never go back there, not if he could help it. Ignoring his tormentors, he listed through a range of possibilities in his mind, searching for a means of defence or escape. Between the shifting figures, he could make out the duffel bag, the zipped opening smirking at him, mocking the injustice of his situation. If he could only reached the bag, grab the silver blade that lay waiting for him inside, he might have a chance. But he would have to get past the wendigoes first, and with an injured ankle, it was unlikely that he would be able to outrun them. There was no chance. He had run out of luck. He was going to die.

Just as hopelessness began to envelope him, a _click_ echoed through the cavern. The sound was followed by another, and the wendigoes stopped in their tracks, their large, oval-shaped heads twisting round to seek out the source of the noise. The atmosphere prickled with tension, and as the _click_ resounded again, a faint light spread over the gloom of the room. One of the wendigoes crouched slightly, a low growl vibrating in its chest, rattling up its throat. Its muscles were tensed tight like a coil, ready for action.

"Looks like it's show-time!" Lucifer's voice sang out, cutting through the tension like a starting pistol, as the wendigoes surged forwards.

...

The malicious stare of the wendigoes now rested on the bowed form of Dean, as he curled himself against the bumpy wall. Within the blink of an eye, the starving beasts were descending upon him. In their effort to reach the hunter, they began to lash out, long skeletal arms and legs tangling around each other in ravenous fury, snarls rumbling from their hollow chests. In the glow of the lighter, the stark flame hollowed out the shadows on the wendigoes faces, highlighting their arched cheekbones, reflecting the desirous expressions in their eyes.

Their fighting ceased as one wendigo whipped at the other, propelling himself forward. As the creature towered over Dean, he brought the can and lighter up, and pressing down hard on the button, a sweet mist showered out from the nozzle. Catching the flame, the vapour caught alight, dowsing the wendigo in a sea of orange flames, the edges tinged blue. As the fire devoured the creature, its arms flailed wildly, hopelessly trying to escape the heat. Its grey skin began to blacken and char, and the wendigo eventually stopped struggling, collapsing to the floor in a smouldering heap of ash.

 _One down, fried extra crispy. Another to go._

Turning to the second wendigo, Dean was surprised at how easy it had been to overcome one wendigo. For once, maybe things were working in his favour; maybe he would be able to get Sam out of the mines, safe and sound, save a few minor injuries. But as this thought crossed his mind, the nozzle began to sputter, the can unexpectedly empty. Fate was a bitch. The once-bright, threatening flame died down, extinguishing at Dean's command as he flipped the lid closed. Slowly looking up towards the remaining wendigo, he saw that it was advancing on him.

Pushing himself against the wall, he wished it would swallow him up. Dropping the aerosol can to the floor, it landed unspectacularly with a dull _clunk_. He reached around his side with his left hand, searching the knife that was secured in his belt loop. It wouldn't do him much good against the 'digo, and neither would the lighter, but the feel of the smooth steel against his coarse palms calmed him. The wendigo stared down at him, salivating at the prospect of a meal, eyes flashing with anticipation. Dean could feel its acrid breath puffing on him, the unwelcoming, coppery smell burning his nostrils. Dean screwed his eyes shut tight, waiting for his gruesome fate, for the sensation of teeth and nails tearing into his body. He hoped against hope that Sam would be able to fight his way out of the damned situation that they had become entangled in.

A scream tore through the atmosphere. Dean's eyes flew open, seeking the source of the howl of pain, fearing what he would find. He could not see Sam, but instead the hunched form of the wendigo. It slowly turned around, and Dean was surprised to see a silver blade embedded in the centre of its back, black blood oozing from the wound. The creature staggered slightly to the left, and as it moved, Dean glimpsed the awkward frame of his brother, balancing on his left foot. Sam was facing the wendigo, a look of grim determination and protective rage etched across his worn features. But the wendigo continued to stumble forwards, and seemingly regained its strength, as it retaliated with aggression to Sam's defensive act. The monster clumsily careened towards the youngest Winchester, and Sam retreated back. However, as his right foot connected with the ground, he let out a cry of pain and tumbled to the floor.

"Sam!" Dean cried.

Desperately pulling himself backwards towards the wall, Sam tried to raise himself from the floor. One swipe from the wendigo's outstretched claws, and the younger man fell back down again. When Sam hit the wall, he pulled his left arm up to his chest, his right hand cradling the bloody grooves that the creature had sliced through the delicate skin there.

Dean only had seconds to react. He had hoped that the silver blade would have done more damaged to the fugly thing, but it had only seemed to piss the wendigo off more. Tearing through the rucksack, Dean grabbed a hold of a second can of deodorant, thanking the smelly adolescent who had been a victim of the wendigoes' appetite. Sprinting towards the blanched figure, he flicked the catch on the lighter, crushing the can's cap beneath his thumb. Flames roared to life before him, coating the wendigo in a red, burning cloak. A screech reverberated off of the walls as the room glowed with a radiant, unwavering intensity. Glancing down at his brother, Dean was flooded with relief to find Sam staring up at him, blinking slowly, his shocked expression white in the light of the flame. The burnt wendigo crumbled to the floor, dust and ash smoking from the remains of the singed frame.

"That –" said Dean, a smile lifting the corners of his lips as he flipped the lid on the zippo, "- was too close."

...

"That should do for now," Dean muttered, piercing a safety pin through the bandage that he had wrapped around Sam's left forearm. "At least until we get back to the motel room."

"Thanks," Sam replied, lifting heavy eyes up to study Dean's face. Luckily, the wendigo had not caught any major arteries, and the warm blood that had initially pulsed from the lacerations had now subsided to a slow trickle. Dean didn't think the wound was too much to worry about, but his shaded green eyes betrayed his worry. There was always the threat of infection, especially after trekking through woods and encountering human remains, but Sam felt fine. Yes, the cuts throbbed a little, but that was to be expected when a wendigo sliced through your arm. And despite his weak assurances that he was fine, Dean had still interrogated him.

"No problem, little brother," Dean said, smiling tiredly and patting Sam on the back. Watching as his brother packed away the first aid kid, the sharp clacks of the plastic clasps being snapped shut echoing through the morning air like gunshots, Sam noted that Dean looked as exhausted as he felt. Not that he could blame him, for Dean had lumbered him and their bulky duffel bag through the woods for the four hours that it had took them to stumble back to the car. No complaints were uttered, and he had even waited whilst Sam had vomited in the bushes, suffering the lingering effects of a concussion. Not that Sam expected anything other than care from his sibling. Dean had been there, as always, whispering soothing reassurances to him, and handing him the bottle of stale water to wash his mouth out with when he was finished. Then, he had patched him up when they had found their way back to the Dodge, carefully tending to the jagged grooves that had been engraved through Sam's tanned skin. His fingers had lightly wiped at the cuts and slowly encircled the wounds with cloth, and afterwards he tended to the deep wound in his own hand. His brother was nothing short of his saviour.

Peeling himself off the hood of the car, Sam hopped over to the passenger door, leaning heavily on the bonnet, which bowed and creaked beneath his weight. He began to open the door, rather awkwardly standing on one foot and using one arm, when Dean rushed to his aid.

"Steady there, Bambi."

Dropping onto the leather seat, Sam felt his brother's hands picking his legs up and placing them carefully into the footwell. Closing the heavy door softly, Dean paced over to the back of the car, stashing their belongings neatly in the trunk. Relishing a sense of comfort and safety, despite being squashed in the cramped confines of the Dodge, Sam felt his muscles relaxing as he closed his sore eyes.

The sound of the driver's door opening and shutting to woke him, despite the cautious nature with which Dean had gone about his actions. Stretching in the seat, Sam twisted slightly to adopt a more suitable position for his battered frame, turning his shoulders so that he faced the view of the emerald pines visible through his window.

"Sorry Sammy, didn't mean to wake you," Dean said softly, shuffling in his seat.

"It's OK, Dean."

Dean glanced his way, and satisfied that his brother was safe, sound and comfortable, he turned the key in the ignition, the motor humming to life. Silence fell between the brothers, the only sound being the purr of the engine as Sam watched the world pass by outside the glass. Mist clung to the atmosphere, coating the trees in a powdery fog, imprisoning the early morning sun behind a white blanket. From inside the car, the broken heater spat jets of hot air at him, and despite the rising temperature in the car, Sam snuggled further into his filth-crusted jacket. Contemplating the events of the past eight hours or more, he felt that the present moment was as good as any to talk.

"Thanks for what you did back there, saving my life. Again."

"Sammy, I would do it again in a heartbeat," Dean said lightly, tilting his head to peer over at his sibling. "Just be thankful that those wendigoes were so hungry that they stole everything from their victims, not just their meat. Who knew they had a craving for mouldy sandwiches."

"Considering there was two of them, they must have been struggling. Looks like they would've eaten anything."

"Yeah, even freakishly tall brothers."

"Whatever," Sam smirked, rolling his head round to face his brother, who was also grinning. "Remember, if I hadn't thrown that blade back there, you would have been toast. I pissed them off, twice, saving your ass."

"Saving my ass? Who was it back there who torched two 'digoes and carried his giant of a brother back through the woods?"

"You. And Dean," Sam said quietly, gaining his brother's full attention, "thank you. Not just for what you did back in the mines. I know it's not easy for you, seeing your brother going nuts. I know I shut you out sometimes. But thank you for your support. I really appreciate it."

Dean's bright green gaze wavered, searching his younger sibling's face. "It's ok, Sammy. That's what big brothers are for," he said, flashing a crooked grin at Sam. After a moment, he coughed and returned his focus back to the asphalt that curved out before them. "Now, there's a pack of tissues in glovebox if you're gonna cry." He reached out, twisting the dial on the stereo as Led Zeppelin began to filter through the tinny speakers.

Sam grinned, shifting down in his seat and closing his eyes once again, letting himself drift into the state of peacefulness that beckoned to him. Just before sleep claimed him, however, he managed to utter a single word.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

 **THE END.**


End file.
